


Phil Coulson's Home for Wayward Youngsters

by Thekeyandquill



Category: Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Domestic Fluff, Homelessness, M/M, POV Phil Coulson, Protective Phil Coulson, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-01-06 14:45:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18390524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thekeyandquill/pseuds/Thekeyandquill
Summary: Phil Coulson is happy with a quiet life in suburban DC whenever he's not shipping off on missions for SHIELD. But then one night he brings drunken pool shark home from his local bar. Now he's got a house full of college students, a pizza-thief dog, something called a "Hulk" in the basement, and no clue what he's doing.





	1. Chapter 1

Phil’s favorite bar is a dive just a few miles from his home in Cathedral Heights. It’s dark enough to make him feel anonymous even in the crisp suit he always wears for work, with an old-school charm in the high-backed wooden booths and the stained-glass window in the door casting a golden glow out onto the entryway.

He’s been coming here for years, but he’s not sure if the place even has a name. Certainly there’s no signage except for a red neon sign in the front window reading “BAR” in large capital letters. But it’s close enough to the local university to keep the prices relatively low and the bureaucratic wave at bay. 

He’s bent over the pool table in the back on a Friday night, playing on his own because most of the patrons are more concerned with their drinks or finding someone to go home with, when he feels someone approach behind him. His years in the Rangers, and now at SHIELD mean that puts all of his nerves on edge, but he works hard to make sure that tension doesn’t translate into his muscles.

He pulls up smoothly only after taking a shot to knock the red 3 ball into the left far corner pocket and turns around. Behind him, a young man leans against the wall giving him an insolent grin. His blonde hair is mussed, and he’s wearing a purple t-shirt that accentuates his well-muscled arms and chest in a way that is, to Phil’s mind, over the top. 

He takes a long swig of his beer as Phil assesses him. Not a threat, clearly, but if he’s 21 then Phil will eat his shoes. Tom, the proprietor, does card his patrons, but convenient enough for a university-adjacent bar, has a terrible eye for spotting fakes.

“You see something you like, mister?”

The kid’s inquiry interrupts Phil’s assessment, and he’s startled into a huff of breath that is almost a laugh. It’s more than most people can get out of him.

“That line usually work out well for you, kid?” 

 He shrugs and finishes the rest of his beer, sitting it down on an empty table.

“Haven’t had to buy any drinks tonight, so I’d say fairly well, yeah.”

“That is one way to avoid getting carded,” Phil says, tipping his head in acknowledgement.

“Hey man, I’m 25,” the boy replies, his voice turning defensive. 

Phil gives him a patented bland smile.

“Sure you are,” he says. “But fair warning, I don’t buy booze for kids, so you might want to try friendlier waters.”

“How about a wager?” the kid says, stepping away from the wall and trailing a hand along the green felt of the pool table. “Loser buys the next round?”

His eyes are a startlingly bright blue in a sharp-jawed, tanned face, and Phil understands why he hasn’t had to buy any drinks. He sighs, and massages his temples with one hand. Trouble. The kid is clearly trouble. And possibly jailbait. Still, Phil isn’t quite ready to let him go.

“Like I said, I don’t contribute to the delinquency of minors. However, I happen to know Tom’s loaded nachos are blessed by the gods. How about loser buys snacks?”

The kid’s wholehearted grin transforms his face into something open and innocent. Shit.

“You’re on.” He says. “Rack ‘em up? I’ll be right back.”

Phil raises an eyebrow at the kid’s retreating back and refuses to let his eyes wander down to his ass in faded jeans. Instead he gathers balls from pockets and racks them, keeping half an eye on his new acquaintance as he approaches a group of women who must be in their early 40s, all drinking violently-colored cocktails, and works his magic.

When he returns maybe 10 minutes later it’s with two dark beers and a line of four shot glasses filled with amber liquid.

He hands a beer to Phil and downs two of the shots in quick order. Phil waves off the offer of one of the shots.

“You want to break?” he asks.

The kid sidles up to the pool table with an intentional swagger in his walk and picks up a cue to start the game. He sends balls flying with a powerful stroke, knocking two into the side pockets.

“I’m stripes,” he says. “And I’m Clint, by the way. Clint Barton.”

“Phil Coulson,” Phil says, shaking the kid’s hand in a quick, dry clasp before he approaches the table to take his shot.

They chat as they play. Turns out Clint is a student, a scholarship kid who came to DC on an archery scholarship. The coaches are some of the best in the country, he says, and he has aspirations to make it to the Olympics in Tokyo in a couple years.

Phil talks about his last time in Tokyo – a reconnaissance mission looking into the Yakuza’s experimentation with alien-augmented drugs – but he leaves that part out. Instead he talks about exploring the Tsukiji fish market, eating octopus so fresh it was still twitching, and getting lost in the crowds in the middle of the Shibuya crossing.

The game moves slowly. They end up trading shots and leaving lots of balls on the table. There’s something off in the way Clint plays, though. Phil watches closely. It’s something stilted in the way he shoots that doesn’t match up with the grace he exudes when he steps away from the table.

“You know,” Phil says at last. “You don’t have to hold back on me. I think I can handle it.”

Clint raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Maybe I’m just enjoying the game?”

Phil gives a little shrug.

“I’m happy to beat you, if that’s the way you really want to go. After all, free nachos are the best kind of nachos.”

Clint firms his jaw and turns back to the pool table. He lines up his first shot and in succinct movements sends the remaining striped balls flying to the pockets. For his final shot he sends the cue ball hopping over the two ball to hit the six ball and send the eight ball spinning off into a far corner pocket.

He turns around to look at Phil, slouching, and letting his weight be borne by the cue.

“Well?” he says.

“I’ll go get those nachos,” Phil replies. “Best two out of three?”

“Sounds good.” 

By the time Phil returns with the food, Clint has managed to finagle himself another round of shots and a fresh beer. He knocks back one of the shots.

“You might want to slow down a little, kid.”

“I can hold my liquor, old man,” he replies, slurring only slightly. How he managed his display on the pool table while buzzed, Phil cannot fathom.

Clint snags a chip from the plate Phil is carrying.

“You’re right.” Clint says. “Free nachos are the best nachos. Rack ‘em again?”

Thing go downhill from there. Clint keeps drinking, and by the time Phil finally wins a game against him, he knows the kid needs to call it a night.

“Alright,” he says. “I think you’ve had enough.”

“Nuh-uh,” Clint mumbles. “M’fine. Jus’ need a lil’ nap.” 

He stumbles a little and then leans on Phil, putting his head on the older man’s shoulder and letting out a contented sigh. His body is warm against Phil’s side.

“Ok there, pool shark, why don’t you give me your address and I’ll take you home.”

“Gotta go to the student union,” Clint mouths into his shoulder.

“Yeah, I don’t think so. I’m not about to drop some passed-out kid off in the middle of the student union. Not happening. Which dorm are you in?”

“No dorm,” Clint says as Phil wraps an arm around his middle. The kid and maneuvers him slowly towards the door.

“Apartment then,” Phil says. “Where do you live, kid?”

“Hmmmm. You smell nice.”

Phil flushes at the unintentional compliment and keeps Clint shuffling forward through a bar that is mostly empty now. It has to be nearly two in the morning.

“Wait, jus’ wait,” Clint says as they pass the bar. “Gotta get m’stuff.” 

He sways over toward the bar and leans against it, Phil suspects more for support than for style, and talks briefly to Tom, who hands him a long purple bag that Phil can’t quite make sense of. Clint slings the pack over his shoulder and walks back, slightly off balance, toward Phil.

Phil grabs him under one arm just as he’s about to take a tumble.

“Here, let me take that.”

“S’mine,” Clint pouts, twisting away and nearly toppling them both. “No, s’mine.”

“Okay, okay,” Phil says. “It’s yours. You keep it. Just try not to knock us over, yeah?” 

They make it out the door and into the cool of the night. Phil leans Clint against the building façade and raises his lolling head so he can look him in the eye.

“Clint,” he says. “Clint look at me. Where do you live?” 

Clint’s head lolls back against the wall.

“S’late,” he says. “M’gon t’ sten union.”

Then he pushes himself off the wall and stumbles a few feet down the street in the complete wrong direction if he wants to get to the university.

“Godammit,” Phil says to the night. “I am too old for this shit. This is what happens when you hang out with drunken teenagers, Phil.”

He walks after Clint and turns him gently with two hands on his shoulders.

“C’mon kid. Come with me.”

The two of them stumble down the street, Phil with one arm wrapped around Clint to keep him steady.

The walk from the bar to Phil’s house has never felt longer with Clint alternately nuzzling into his neck, his stubble tickling, and trying to break free of Phil’s grasp to walk in the other direction.

They reach the decrepit-looking brick Victorian nearly 30 minutes later, and Phil sets Clint down on the porch swing on the large wraparound porch while he opens the door.

Clint is pumping his legs back and forth on the swing, making it rock back and forth on squeaking hinges. The thing was here when Phil bought the place, and he’s more than a little worried that it’s going to collapse under the weight of a grown man.

The door creaks open, and Phil collects Clint from the swing. The younger man practically collapses onto him as he jumps off the moving swing and Phil feels most of the breath knocked out of him.

They maneuver clumsily through the foyer and into the living room where Phil dumps the kid unceremoniously onto his leather couch. Clint goes down face first with a soft “Umph.” But obviously he’s not too hurt because within moments he’s snoring.

All Phil can do is shake his head. He slips the kid’s shoes off, sets the bag he was carrying behind the sofa and pulls a soft fleece throw from the back of a chair and drapes it over his body. He leaves two ibuprofen and a glass of water on the corner of the coffee table before retiring for the night to his own room.

The stairs creak and Phil can hear wind whistling from somewhere. The old house leaks like a sieve, and he really needs to get someone in to take care of the insulation before winter comes or the heating bills will bleed him dry. It was foolish of him, really, to buy the place. It’s ancient and falling apart and it’s way too much house for him.

But he spent eight years in the Rangers being shipped around to a new posting every year or so and another seven as a junior agent in SHIELD taking ever shit mission to work his way up the ladder. So eight months ago, when he was promoted to senior agent and promised more time at home base in DC, he had been overwhelmed by a deep, unavoidable need to find a place to call home.

Even his realtor had thought he was nuts to buy this place. But Phil didn’t see the reality of the place when he looked at it. He saw everything it could be and everything it represented. He saw good bones and character and room enough to fill with family and friends for every holiday. He saw a back yard to grow tomatoes and herbs in the summer … A place to put down roots.

He’d made the purchase and then made a game plan to fix the place up. It would take six months tops to get all of the essentials done, he thought. But then there had been missions, and long nights in the office, and difficult assets who refused to do as they were told. And so he had only a handful of usable rooms in a house full of holes and fall fast approaching. It was all a disaster.

Phil sighs and removes his tie as he shuffles into his room and closes the door quietly behind him, tossing his clothes onto the back of a chair before curling into bed. Around him the house emits a familiar and desolate litany of creaks and groans and ,somewhere down the stairs, Clint Barton snores and mutters in his sleep. For the night at least, it makes things seem a little less lonely.

* 

The snoring is ongoing the next morning as Phil pours his first cup of coffee, brewed thick enough to chew and doctored to an unwholesome sweetness. He’s sipping from his chipped Rangers mug and standing in front of the open refrigerator door, considering what to make for breakfast, when Maria Hill saunters in in track suit bottoms, running shoes and an oversized fun run t-shirt (D.C. Turkey Trot 2012). She grabs a mug from his cabinet, pours herself a cup of coffee and grimaces. 

“Are you aware you have a toddler asleep in your living room?”

“You don’t say?”

She raises an inquisitive eyebrow at him. Maria has had a key to Phil’s place since it became Phil’s place, and she uses it as a rest stop on her weekend runs and whenever she needs to escape her terrible boyfriend. Jasper is a certified douchebag, but depressing resilient in Maria’s life despite this fact.

Phil turns back to the refrigerator. Fried eggs and potato hash, he determines, and starts pulling ingredients out and lining them up on the counter.

“Are you seriously not going to explain the strange child on your couch to me?”

“He followed me home. Can I keep him, ma?” he says as he starts to peel the potatoes and chop onions.

“Phil, what gives?” she says, pushing his shoulder so that he rocks to one side and back. Maria expresses concern through physical violence. It’s also how she expresses affection, and irritation, and outright hostility. One has to know the nuances of that violence in order to fully understand her.

“Maria, relax. The kid was at the bar last night, clearly did not know his limit, and couldn’t remember his address. I couldn’t exactly leave him passed out in the gutter." 

“So you brought him home like a stray puppy?”

“You like puppies,” Phil says.

He pours oil into his sauté pan with a sizzle and adds the potatoes and onions, humming a little absentmindedly as he cooks.

“A toddler is a lot more work than a puppy.”

“Yes well, I’m not adopting him.”

“That’s what you say now.”

They exchange frustrated glances at one another.

“Are you staying for breakfast?” He finally asks.

Maria crosses her arms and her glare intensifies for a moment before she lets herself sag against the kitchen counter.

“Yes,” she says, in a sharper tone than the answer warrants. “It smells delicious.”

Phil goes back to humming happily, cracking eggs into a new pan, when a rapid-fire banging comes from the direction of the front door.

Phil and Maria are both instantly on high alert. Phil slides the food off the stove and reaches for the nearest gun to hand, strapped in a holster mounted under the kitchen island. Maria pulls a knife from somewhere low on her right leg and they both cautiously approach the door.

“Clint!” Someone is yelling from outside. “Open the fucking door. Clint!”

Through the beveled glass of the front door, Phil sees a girl with dark red curly hair dressed in unrelenting black. Her features are obscured by the glass, but she doesn’t appear to be holding a weapon. Phil holds his gun behind his body with his right hand and opens the door with his left.

“I’m sorry, can I help you?” he asks. 

The girl doesn’t bother to answer him. Instead she barges past him and into the house.

“Clint!” She’s yelling. “Cli…”

She stops her tirade suddenly when she walks into the living room and sees Clint, still fast asleep, face wedged into the crook of the sofa. He snorts, grumbles softly, then pulls the throw over his tangled hair and resumes his snoring.

Phil tucks his gun into the back of his pants and approaches the girl, slowly. 

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” he asks.

She turns to him with a harried look on her face.

“Coffee would be good.”

“Did Clint call you to come get him?” Phil asks as he fills her mug. He’s utterly baffled as to how the girl ended up on his doorstep.

“I tracked his phone,” she says. When she speaks, her voice is calm and comes out with a faint Russian accent. “He didn’t check in at the student union last night. It’s protocol.” 

“Protocol?”

“We look out for each other. Make sure no one ends up dead in a ditch.”

“I see,” Phil nods. “It’s good he has a friend like you miss…” 

“Romanov. Natasha Romanov.”

“I’m Phil,” He tips his head towards her in greeting. He doesn’t think she would willingly shake his hand. “Clint had a few too many last night. He wanted me to take him to the student union, I’m guessing to catch up with you, but I was worried about leaving him there alone. He couldn’t seem to remember his address, so we came here instead.” 

“And he slept …”

Phil feels his face heat at the implication. For Christ sakes, he doesn’t sleep with children.

“On the couch, out there, all night.” 

“Fine,” she says. The look she is giving him is calm but focused, as though she’s trying to suss something out about him. “I’ll just go get him and take him home then.”

“How about you let him sleep?” Phil says. And, okay, he’s not sure where that came from. He certainly doesn’t want to appear any creepier than he already does to Clint’s friend, but something about the whole situation seems off to him. Why would they check in with each other at the student union late at night? Why not send a simple text? Or make a phone call? “The kid looked kind of done in last night, and he’s sure to have a hangover. You have my word, I’ll take him home whenever he wakes up.” 

“I don’t …” 

“But maybe you could tell me where home is for him? In case his memory hasn’t become clearer with a good night’s sleep.”

She’s on the defensive instantly.

“Fuck off, Mudak,” she says. If she’s mixing up her Russian and her English, Phil figures she must be flustered. “You stay the hell away from us.”

She turns in one graceful movement and is out the kitchen door and yelling again.

“Clint, wake up and get your shit together. We’re leaving.”   

But when Phil follows her into the living room Clint is gone, as are the aspirin, the water, and Clint’s bag. _Well,_ Phil thinks, _this is going well._

Natasha Romanov storms out of his house with an irritated huff, but without giving Phil and Maria a second look.

Maria rolls her eyes at him.

“You know,” she says. “People talk about eternal youth being this big, awesome thing, but I would not go back to being that age for any amount of money. That degree of angst is just exhausting.”

And Phil can’t help but agree. 

*

The thing is, Phil isn’t stupid. He’s pretty sure he knows what’s going on with Clint and Natasha. It isn’t that hard to put the pieces together, really. And he’s equally certain that they both know that he knows. It’s the only explanation, really, for Clint’s fleeing Phil’s house as quickly as he did even in the middle of what must have been a hangover of epic proportions.

It bothers him, of course it does. Phil does work with homeless vets. Sam recruited him to help out at his shelter’s soup kitchen years ago, and now he runs a quarterly interview skills course for some of the longer-term residents. But Phil reasons that there’s nothing he can really do. Now they know he’s caught on, he’s unlikely to see either of them again. They are both of them too clever for that. 

So he goes about his days, spends more time than he should at work, and tries to put the whole situation out of his mind. Then on Friday he walks into the Cathedral Heights bar and there is Clint Barton with an arm draped casually around woman in an immaculate white pantsuit, his head tipped back in laughter.

Phil pauses in the doorway, brushing a few raindrops off his jacket. The storm outside hasn’t quite unleashed yet, but it will soon if the rumble of thunder he can hear over the typical roar of bar chatter and the jukebox is any indication.

For a second, Phil considers turning around and going home. He’s got a bottle of single malt that May had sent him for his birthday gathering dust in his liquor cabinet and a DVR full of _Pitbulls and Parolees_. He doesn’t have to deal with this potentially awkward situation. But then he straightens his spine and tells himself to act like a goddam adult and makes his way to the bar. There’s no reason he has to talk to the kid, anyway. He’s sure to ignore Phil.

Tom pulls him a Fullers and, finding the pool table occupied, Phil pulls out a thin paperback from the interior pocket of his jacket along with his thick-framed reading glasses and picks up from where he left off on _The Martian Chronicles_. He’d read it once when he was in school, but Peter has started it for his AP English class, and Phil likes to give them something structured to talk about during their regular Skype calls. May thinks it’s good for him to have a male role model to connect with, but Phil had trouble relating to high schoolers even when he was one.

Spender is waxing poetical about Earth men ruining beautiful things when Phil feels a warm, muscled shoulder bump against his. 

“Phiiiil!”

Well, unexpected. Phil swivels on his bar stool to look at Clint. His eyes are bright but unfocused, his smile wide and free. 

“Hello, Clint,” Phil says, nodding at him over the rim of his beer glass. The kid is wasted. He is so, so wasted, but it’s still difficult for Phil to keep himself from smiling.

“Youuuu have been ignoring me,” Clint says, wagging his index finger in a lazy circle as he speaks before zeroing in on Phil’s face and poking him gently in the nose.

“Boop,” he says.

Phil leans back and tilts his head to one side in confusion. _What in the hell is happening here?_ Instead of reacting to the aberration, Phil cleasr his throat and moves firmly past it.

“You seemed a little busy when I came in,” he says. “Pretty lady.”

“If you like that sort of thing,” Clint replies with a shrug.

“No luck then?”

 “Well, the night is young,” Clint says with a leer.

And Phil has to remind himself that the young, fit man beside him does not want to sleep with him. He’s not even gay. He’s just a kid who can’t handle his booze. That is the entirety of the situation.

“Waaait,” Clint says, poking Phil again, this time in the chest. “Are you reading a book at a bar? Why are you reading a book? At a bar?”

Phil shrugs. If he’s lucky Clint won’t remember this conversation in the morning, so he doesn’t have to feel ashamed.

“I’m kind of in a book club with my 15-year-old nephew,” he says. “I’m suspect he’s just using me to crib his book reports off of, but we’re supposed to talk about this one next week, so …”

“You’re good with kids.”

“I’m terrible with kids. It’s why I need a directed conversation. Otherwise it’s like he starts speaking in another language. What is BDE? Is it something you do to another person? You’re young, help me out here.”

“I …” Clint’s face crumples into itself in a look of concentration. “I think I may be too drunk to explain.”

“Fat lot of good you are.”

Phil smiles at him for what he knows is an inappropriately long moment, but Clint’s face is entirely too downtrodden for the situation. 

“It’s fine,” he says at last. “I probably wouldn’t understand it even if you did explain.”

And then Clint’s smiling again, and twisting his body towards Phil, and leaning in far too close for comfort.

“You,” he says, tugging on Phil’s lapels, “Should buy me a drink and tell me all about your nerdy book. I wanna join book club.”

“I think we went over this last time. You are too young to be here.” 

“Yeah, but you’re not gonna kick me out of bed for something like that, are you Phil?”

Phil feel flames in his cheeks so powerful he’s pretty sure you could see his blush from space. Jesus, this is just unfair. Maybe Clint will think his cheeks are red because of his beer? Dammit he’s 35 and far too old to blush.

_You are an adult, Phil, act like an adult._

But when he opens his mouth to respond absolutely nothing comes out.

“Hold that thought,” Clint says. He pushes an index finger against Phil’s mouth and it catches slightly on his lower lip. Then Clint is up and gone. Phil licks his lips unconsciously, shakes his head as though he can physically shake away the haze of lust that is gathering there, and turns back to his book.

Except not 15 minutes later, Clint is back, crowding into Phil’s personal space and pulling the book away from his face. He’s acquired another drink from somewhere, something bright green and toxic-looking.

“So, you into the science fiction?” he asks. “I’ve never been much on it myself, but I got a couple friends who are. Bruce and Tony dragged me to all the old Star Trek movies. They had a marathon at the discount movie house last semester.”  

Phil doesn’t turn toward him, but he leaves the book on the bar.

“I’ve always been more into fantasy than sci-fi. Tolkein, Marquez, Le Guin.”

“Elves and trolls and stuff?”

“Pretty much.”

Phil pointedly does not mention the Captain America thing. He’s a nerd, but there are limits to how much he can bare to reveal to a man with zero percent body fat.

“Never read much of that stuff. I was more into Westerns when I was younger. There was always a Louis L’Amour novel circulating around the cir- Uh, when I was growing up.”

“My dad used to read me those books when I was little. That why you took up archery? Cowboys and Indians?”

“Nah, that I did mostly just to show off,” Clint says with a grin.

“Yeah, I can imagine you were a cocky little shit growing up,” Phil says, returning his grin.

“You have no idea.”

They both chuckle a little at that before a silence falls over them. Phil can almost feel it, thick and cloying, as it settles around his shoulders. Clint downs his drink in three quick gulps.

“Aren’t we all like that, though? Before life kicks the shit out of us?” Clint eventually says.

It’s only then that Phil allows himself to really look at him. There are dark purple bruises under his eyes and his blonde stubble glinting in the amber light of the bar is a little too thick to be fashionable and a little too thin to be a beard. The t-shirt he’s wearing is tight and definitely flattering, but also clearly thin and worn from many, many washes. It’s the kind of thing that Phil’s dad would have relegated to the rag box in their garage. 

Without thinking about it, Phil slides a hand across the sticky wood of the bar to place it over Clint’s. He regrets it almost immediately. It’s far too intimate for the space, and with an almost stranger, but he doesn’t pull it away right away for fear of drawing even more attention to it. Maybe Clint won’t even notice?

“Kid,” he says with a sigh. “You are way too young to sound that world weary.”

Clint grips Phil’s fingers for a quick moment before pulling away and laying his head directly onto the bar.

“Jus’ tired.”

“C’mon,” Phil says. “Let me take you home.”

When Clint lifts his head up to look at Phil his smile is soft.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, alright.”

Clint collects his bag from Tom and then stumbles off his stool. He’s not as bad off as he was last week, but certainly he shouldn’t go wandering off alone. Without any prompting, he leans on Phil and lets him guide them out of the bar. On the sidewalk he slips the strap of the backpack off his shoulder and hands it to Phil while he takes a moment to retch into the gutter. Phil remembers Clint’s reluctance to let go of the bag last time, and takes it for the act of trust it really is, hooking the bag carefully over his shoulder.

When Clint seems confident that nothing is coming up, he stands and weaves his way back to Phil.

“So where to?” Phil asks.

Clint leans his head on Phil’s shoulder.

“Man, can I sleep on your couch tonight?”

“Of course,” Phil says, wrapping an arm around Clint’s waist. Because of course. This will be fine.

* 

Phil is up early the next morning to drink the coffee, make the scones and formulate a plan. Clint is out cold with his face pressed into the leather of the couch, snuffling gently into it, like a puppy having a very energetic dream.

After he pulls apple walnut scones out of the oven, he settles outside on the porch swing with his third cup of coffee of the morning to await Natasha Romanov’s inevitable return. It’s warm and humid, even at 8 a.m., and it’s days like these that make Phil supremely aware that D.C. is built on former swampland. And some days he thinks the swamp should be allowed to reclaim it. 

It doesn’t take long for Romanov to show up, walking up his driveway in her Kirby-Lee University sweatshirt and jeans with an already-sour look on her face.

“You track his phone again?” he asks as she steps up onto the porch.

“I made an educated guess.”

They stare at each other in a stand-off for a few minutes before Phil finally speaks up.

“So, before you scream the house down, he’s fine. He’s asleep on the couch. And before either of you run off anywhere, we need to have a chat. How about some coffee?” 

He doesn’t give her time to reply, just gets up and holds the door open for her.

“Also, I made scones,” he says.

She huffs an irritated sigh, but doesn’t protest, just stomps her way into the entryway and through the living room, past a Clint who is listing off the side of the couch now, his hair brushing the floor, and into the kitchen where she pours coffee, grabs a scone from the counter and perches herself in a chair at the kitchen table. Her body is still on alert, and her eyes track Phil with every move he makes, re-filling his cup, grinding fresh beans, and setting the coffee pot to percolate.

They don’t speak, but Phil offers her a pick of sections from the newspaper. He’s delving guiltily into the arts section, but hey, it’s the weekend. She steals world news from him and mutters to herself occasionally in Russian as she reads. 

He considers at first whether she’ll consider it too invasive to talk to her in her own language, but it isn’t as though she can dislike him more at this point, so he forges ahead.

“ _Bad news?”_ he asks in Russian.

She flicks her eyes up to him. Her body has clearly been schooled into not reacting to surprise, but her eyes are full of curiosity.

“ _Is it ever anything else with these KGB assholes?”_ she replies.

Phil looks over at the story she’s reading “Poisoning Suspected in Activist Illness.”

“ _They aren’t subtle, are they?”_

 _“Why, when they have no need?”_  she asks. “ _Messy … You speak with a Siberian accent. “_

It isn’t exactly a question, but Phil nods. “ _My teacher was from Novosibirsk.”_

His instructor had been a defecting scientist from the USSR scientific research facility in the city, but he doesn’t mention that, as the man’s presence in the US is still classified as need to know.

“ _That city is a shithole. Also it’s always fucking freezing,”_ Romanov replies with a grimace of distaste.

Phil is about to mention a terrible experience with sugudai, (because it really was awkward to realize that the chopped raw fish dish didn’t agree with him while on a trans-Siberian train trip) when Clint finally ambles into the kitchen. His eyes are half-closed, his hair sticking up in unruly spikes. He ignores them both, fumbles for the coffee pot, misses his cup when he attempts to pour and lets out a soft, plaintive, “Aw, coffee, no …”

When the coffee is mopped up, amidst lots of angry, indecipherable grumbles, he flops onto the chair beside Natasha and grabs at a scone to stuff into his mouth.

“Mornin’” he mumbles through crumbs.

“Sleep well?” Natasha asks him.

“Hmmm,” he says, laying a head sleepily on her shoulder. “Sorry I didn’t call.”

“It’s alright, lastachka.”    

Something twists in Phil’s stomach at the easy physical intimacy between them, and the nickname. Little bird, she called him. He pushes the useless jealousy down and reminds himself not to be an idiot.

“These are really good,” Clint says, taking another scone, and devouring it in two sloppy bites. His eyes seem fully opened now, and his gaze flicks between Phil and Natasha curiously. “Um, did I miss something? You two seem really tense.”

“Phil wants to have a talk with us,” Natasha tells him. Her voice is sharp, and Clint flushes when he hears it.

 _Well,_ Phil thinks, _that’s my cue._

He keeps his voice calm, uncurious. It’s the tone he uses to start out interrogations, when he’s still trying to win over a subject.

“Let’s start with how long you two have been living rough?”

He’s chosen the wording carefully, because he’s trying not to be too aggressive with them, afraid they’ll make a run for it like last time.

Clint chokes on his coffee, and Natasha rolls her eyes at him. They stare at each other for a couple minutes, a silent conversation running between them made entirely of twitching eyebrows and grimaces.

“Nat, I swear I didn’t tell him,” Clint finally says.

Natasha remains silent at this.

“He didn’t tell me,” Phil says. “But neither of you are exactly subtle. So what happened? Bad roommates? Trouble with the Greeks?”

Clint snorts. 

“You’d have to be able to afford a dorm room in order to have a horrible roommate to kick you out.”

This brings Phil up short.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Clint shrugs and slumps down on the table, hiding his face behind his coffee mug. 

“But you’re on scholarship.”

“Yeah, so is Nat. We were both pretty surprised when we figured out that doesn’t exactly mean what you think it means. I never really thought a kid like me could get into college at all, so when a scout came and offered me a free ride, I didn’t exactly look too closely at the details.” 

“Covers tuition, and that’s about it,” Natasha adds. She doesn’t look happy to be sharing this information, but she’s persevering.

“We both have a full class load and training. Nat’s ROTC. Doesn’t exactly leave a lot of time to hold down a job. Nat tutors, I pick up odd jobs when I can, but it’s not exactly enough to cover rent anywhere.”

There is something hot and acidic churning in Phil’s gut, but he does his best to ignore it. 

“And there’s no one you could ask for help? A loan? A place to stay?”

The look Clint gives him, hard and angry, encourages Phil to move slowly and cautiously away from that topic of conversation.

“So you sleep in the student union?” he asks instead.

Clint shrugs.

“It’s open 24-7, and it’s pretty quiet at night. Nobody around but the janitors to bother you. Shower at the gym, the Fellowship of Christian Athletes even does free coffee and donuts on the quad every Monday.”

He talks about it like he’s discussing weekend plans – which coffee shop he prefers or the best time to get to the farmers’ market. It’s another log to rest uneasily in Phil’s stomach.

“There are plenty of people who have it worse,” Natasha says.

“Yeah, and Nat and I look out for each other.” 

“And what about when the campus is closed down?” Phil asks. He’s not sure why exactly he feels compelled to delve into the details. They don’t matter, not really. It’s just all more fuel for his indignation.

“I work at a camp up in the Adirondacks during the summer teaching archery. And other times we, um, we make do.”

Which means, of course, that they sleep on the fucking streets. The fire in his gut is moving slowly but steadily into Phil’s bloodstream.

“And no one at the university cares about this?”

“No one’s said anything yet.”

“We don’t exactly make friends, but we’re hardly the only ones,” Natasha says. “You see people around. Doesn’t take much to put the clues together.” 

Without meaning to, Phil slams his fist down onto the kitchen table, rattling the cups and utensils. Goddammit.

The thing is, Phil knows the social safety net fails people all the time. If it weren’t for his work with SHIELD, he would probably one of those idealistic bureaucratic shmucks in the federal buildings on Pennsylvania Avenue writing white papers on Medicare for all and raising the minimum wage. But as it is, he’s a card-carrying member of the DSA and keeps his picket line skills sharp in between missions. You do what you can.

But there’s something about this situation. One somehow, tragically expects people to forget about washed-up Army vets undone by PTSD. But these are kids in their prime. They’re scholarship students. If anyone should logically be protected from this sort of harsh reality, they should be. And yet. And yet, still, no one seems to give a fuck.

Clint is giving Phil an alarmed look. Phil sees the concern in the tilt of his mouth and the crease on his forehead, but he also sees the dark circles under his eyes. How long since he had a good night’s sleep? One where he didn’t have to worry about watching his back or keeping hold on his things. Suddenly Phil has a flash of how Clint had clung to his bag that first night and refused to let Phil take it from him. 

“Look, Phil, I know it sounds sketchy as hell, and it probably is, but we aren’t hurting anyone, I swear,” Clint says, reaching out his hand to cover Phil’s. “Please don’t report us.”

“Report you?” Phil asks, faintly. “Jesus …”

“I could have told you this was a bad idea,” Natasha mutters.

“No,” Phil says, shaking himself mentally to pull himself together. These kids are dealing with enough, and they don’t need to see him breaking down. “No, I swear it isn’t. It isn’t a bad idea.”

They’re both giving him looks like he’s a crazy person. But he’s got a plan, and Phil’s plans rarely fail. He clears his throat and puts on his mission debrief face. The anger can wait.

“Listen, I’d like for you both to stay here this weekend. I’ve got plenty of room. Miss Romanov, there’s a guestroom that’s yours if you want it, and Clint there’s a pull-out in my office –“

“Hey, why did I have to sleep on the couch last night then?” Clint interrupts, indignant.

“You passed out on the couch. I figured attempting to princess carry you might cause more harm than good.”

“Oh, right …”

“Anyway,” Phil says. “I’d like you both to stay here. On Monday, I’m going to go have a talk with the Dean of Students and sort this whole mess out. The situation is unacceptable. Do you have any idea the size of the endowments Kirby-Lee has? They could house every fucking student they’ve got and still have money left over to build that giant eyesore of a stadium and hire a dozen endowed professors of whatever the fuck the hot topic is now. Fucking unacceptable.”

The last Phil mutters under his breath, but he knows they both hear it. 

And suddenly he can’t deal with their eyes on him. Doesn’t want to know if their expressions are hopeful, or suspicious, or scornful. Phil knows how important it can be to remove oneself from an unstable situation. Right now, he’s the unstable element.

He stands from the kitchen table abruptly, the chair squeaking against the floor.

“I’m going to the store,” he says, turning without really looking at either of them. Instead he turns to rinse his mug out in the sink. “I’ll pick up something for dinner. Please make yourselves at home. There’s some food in the fridge, bathroom’s down the hall. Washer and dryer in the basement if you need to do laundry, and the TV’s got cable. Just don’t mess with my DVR.”

He pauses for a moment in the kitchen doorway.

“You don’t have to stay, of course you don’t, but I hope you will,” he says, casting a furtive glance back towards them. Clint and Natasha have huddled closer together, heads bent towards each other in silent conference. He sighs. “Just lock up if you leave.”

Pushing a cart with a wonky wheel down the aisle of the grocery store, Phil figures the odds of either of them being there when he gets home to be approximately 100 to 1. Still, he talks to the butcher and gets a nice roast to make for dinner, and then wanders through the aisles. He thinks about the way Clint had inhaled scones this morning, and wonders the last time the kid had a proper meal.

He ends up buying way too much junk food. Popcorn and bags of chips and boxes of cookies and pizza in numerous forms – bites, pockets and, disturbingly, bagels – and then feels a niggling worry about malnutrition. Is scurvy still a thing? Rickets? Maybe that’s just for little kids? He picks up oranges and apples and carrots and celery sticks and tubs of yogurt.

At the checkout he feels deeply self-conscious about the mountain of food he piles on the conveyor belt, but the girl manning the register just flicks her ponytail excessively and says not a word. Lola has just barely enough room in the trunk for all he bought. 

What Phil really expects is for both of the kids to be gone without a trace when he gets home. But as he starts to haul the groceries in, he finds them curled up together on one end of the couch watching an old episodes of the old animated Batman series. Natasha is doing a pretty good impression of Harley Quinn, and they’re both giggling. Phil can’t quite suppress a smile as he goes to put things away.

Clint immediately jumps to his feet as he soon as he spots Phil, and Natasha’s laughter fades quickly.

“Hey, you need help with those?”

“Yeah, that’d be great.”

Phil jerks his head in the direction of the driveway.

Clint brings in the rest of the bags and begins putting the food away while Phil preps the roast in a bed of carrots and potatoes and turns the oven on low. The oven is an old model, in the house when Phil bought it, in a hideous avocado green.

“That’s an awful pretty machine you got out there,” Clint says as he stacks boxes in the freezer. 

“Lola,” Phil says with a smile. “My best girl. Rebuilt her myself from a husk.”

“Good with your hands, then,” Clint says, his tone turning sly.

Phil huffs a laugh, even though he doesn’t want to reward the terrible joke. When he turns from the oven Clint is carelessly juggling three of the oranges. He catches Phil watching him and uses his elbow to send them arcing gracefully into the fruit bowl on the island one by one. The smile on his face while he does could be described as nothing less than shit-eating.

“Dinner should be ready by six,” Phil says. “I’m going to the shooting range. You should make yourself at home.” 

“Hey, wait!” Clint calls after him. “Shooting range? Can I come?”

Phil flicks his eyes back towards him.

“You got a piece to shoot with, son?”

Clint responds with a shrug that says _of course._


	2. Chapter 2

At the range, Phil pays for two lanes and a couple of cases of bullets, but when he offers Clint one, the kid just waves it away. He’s carrying that weird-shaped purple bag of his, and Phil’s heart twinges a little. He obviously still doesn’t feel safe enough to leave anything behind. Phil really, really needs to shoot something. 

He reloads his service weapon three times before he stops himself, sending 17 kill shots into his targets and a plethora of incapacitating “warning shots” to hands, knees, legs, and feet. When the scent of hot metal finally clears, his mind feels clearer too. He has a plan. He’s going to fix things, and kids, he knows, are resilient.

He moves over to Clint’s lane and stops short when he sees him not with a gun, but with a graceful recurve bow. While Phil watches, he notches an arrow, pulls the string back, takes a deep breath and releases. The arrow goes flying to the very center of the target, where there is already a sizable hole. Just one hole in the entire target. Phil notices a pile of arrows already on the floor. He’s clearly been doing this for a while, shooting and never once missing.

Phil whistles low, and Clint turns to smirk at him. He’d known, theoretically, that Clint must be good, with his scholarship and his Olympic hopes. But knowing and seeing are two very different things.

“Now you’re just showing off,” he says.

“This is just target practice,” Clint says. “You want me to show off, I can show off.”

He turns back to the target and knocks another arrow. Clint fires 12 arrows one after another, his shoulder muscles moving smoothly under his t-shirt in a way that Phil can’t help but admire. He shoots simultaneously with total concentration and total ease. It’s as though this is the thing he was made to do. 

When he’s done, he reaches over and pushes the button to bring the target forward. Then he turns and presents it to Phil.

“That’s for you,” he says, giving Phil a smile like a cat presenting its favorite person with a prize mouse. Then he pats Phil once on the shoulder and walks out into his lane to retrieve his arrows.

On the target in Phil’s hands, arrow holes form the outline of a heart with the letters “P” and “C” in the center. The shooting is, in fact, impressive. Beyond that Phil cannot, for the life of him, figure out what to make of the gift. He rolls it up and tucks it delicately under an arm anyway. 

Dinner that evening is a quiet affair, during which Phil forces multiple helpings of roast beef, carrots and potatoes on both of his guests as well as bowls of ice cream, chocolate sauce and whipped cream. Then he pops some popcorn and places large bowls in both of their laps as they settle on the couch for a movie.

From the corner in his leather reading chair, Phil watches them more than the movie, a pile of paperwork laid out on his lap and not getting nearly the amount of attention that it should.

Clint quotes most of the dialogue from The Princess Bride until Natasha starts pelting him with pieces of popcorn. He retaliates, and then sends a kernel flying in Phil’s direction. It is perfectly aimed to hit the middle of his forehead, but Phil looks up and catches it between his thumb and forefinger before it makes contact. He gives Clint a withering look. 

“Never go up against a Sicilian when death is on line,” he deadpans.

They completely miss the screaming eels because Clint can’t seem to stop laughing.

As Buttercup and Westley reunite, and Fezzick puts on the holocaust cloak, and Inigo finds the six-fingered man, and Clint and Natasha kick at each other with sibling-style affection from across the couch, Phil feels an unexpected warmth flood his chest. It feels like family and it feels like home. He immediately distrusts it because he knows from experience that it’s a feeling he is not allowed to keep.

He turns his attention back to his work because that way lies danger. Near midnight, Clint and Natasha both head off to bed, but Phil stays in the living room for longer than he should trying to concentrate and tamp down the ridiculous fluttering in his chest that comes when Clint splays a warm hand carelessly on his shoulder and says “G’night, Phil,” in a scratchy, sleep-heavy voice. 

They spend most of Sunday hiding inside from an extreme heat wave. Phil makes an enchilada casserole for dinner and fills Clint’s plate again while he still has the last forkful of his first helping hovering by his mouth.

“You need to eat more,” Phil says lightly when Clint gives him a confused look.

“You’re trying to fatten me up,” he accuses.

“Damn,” Phil replies. “You’re on to my dastardly plan. Now eat.” 

“Sir, yes sir,” Clint replies.

*

It is an undeniable fact that adults do not have arch nemeses. They just don’t. Phil knows this. They have friends, and colleagues, and challenging personalities. And yet here he is plotting all the ways he can destroy Dean Theresa Vasquez.

He doesn’t wan to kill her. He wouldn’t be that crass. Plus, he feels that such an end would be too quick and merciful. He wants to see her suffer. Nemesis seems a pale word in comparison to those emotions. 

The thing is, Phil has gotten tragically accustomed to the efficiency with which SHIELD does most things. Sure, there are myriad levels of bureaucracy which Phil has to navigate on a daily basis, but there is a pattern there, a logic that he both understands and empathizes with. There are plenty of boxes to check, but you only need to check them once. But he had been unfamiliar with the eldritch intricacies of academia, where no such order exists.

He foolishly thought he would be able to handle the whole situation on his lunch break, In, out, explain the situation and negotiate a solution. He’d resolved hostage crises in less than 50 minutes, so he should certainly be able to wrap this up in time to grab a burger from Ben’s Chili Bowl.

He had proceeded to spend three hours arguing with support staff who kept insisting that no, he couldn’t see the dean if he didn’t have an appointment, being shuffled around to various administrator offices and generally raising his blood pressure by several points before he finally managed to bully his way into the dean’s office.  He explained the situation succinctly to her, taking up no more than five minutes of her time. Once he was done, the dean had leaned back in her fancy office chair and given him what he interpreted as a surly expression.

“What exactly do you expect me to do about this, Mr. Coulson?” she asked.

“I expect you to make sure that you don’t have scholarship students living on the streets, Dean Vasquez,” he said. “That seems a pretty minimal ask to me.”

“And if we make an exception for these kids, then we have to do the same for any other students who can’t afford dorm rates.”

And Phil had just stared at her for a long moment. Phil’s stares are legendary. He’s made recruits cry with them. But Dean Vasquez had not even shifted in her seat.

“Well, yes,” he had said finally. “I think you’ll find, if you consider your previous sentence, it’s a pretty reasonable statement.”

“I’ll be honest with you, Phil. Can I call you Phil?”

“I’d really prefer you didn’t.”

“The university can’t waste money on an initiative like that, and even if we could, it wouldn’t be worth our while to do so.” 

“Let me be quite clear, Dean Vasquez, I have contacts with several prominent members of the press corps, and I think you’ll find …”

She’d had the audacity to laugh at him. 

“I think you’ll find that the press corps won’t give a shit about the kids you’re talking about. What exactly do you know about Ms. Romanov and Mr. Barton, really? Because let me assure you, Mr. Coulson, they aren’t the type of kids to earn any sympathy from the press.” 

“I don’t know what exactly you’re implying Dean Vasquez, but I think you should reconsider doing so,” Phil had said with ice in his voice.

“We’re done here. I need to hop on a donor call, and this isn’t really a productive conversation anyway.” 

Then she had dismissed him with the wave of a hand and picked up the phone. 

He’s angry because she didn’t care, but he’s also angry because she’s right. He’d run background checks on Natasha and Clint after the first night they’d stayed with him. He’s a spy, after all. He’d be derelict in his duties if he didn’t. In and out of the foster system from a young age, a string of arrests for both of them dating back to their early teens. They aren’t the types to garner a lot of sympathy and understanding. 

He heads home feeling dejected, and dragging his feet as he hangs his jacket on the rack in the hallway and removes his shoes. He’s in the kitchen popping open a much-needed beer when Clint sticks his head through the door. 

“I take it that’s not a celebratory drink?”

Phil takes a long gulp. 

“It is, in fact, not.” 

Clint nods once, sharply.

“Hey, man, I appreciate you trying.”

Phil winces.

“Don’t thank me for failing,” he says. “I haven’t felt this useless in a long time.” 

“Hey, no.”

Clint comes over to lean against the countertop beside Phil and bump one shoulder with his own.

“You realizes most guys wouldn’t even have tried, right? I always knew it was a long shot. You really shouldn’t be hard on yourself.”

“If you thought I was going to fail, then why did you stick around?”

Clint shrugs.

“Maybe I liked the company?” he says with a small smile. “Also, your pot roast is out of this world, man.” 

Phil smiles at that. It’s nice, this. That they already feel so comfortable with one another. Phil’s usually more standoffish. He picks his friends carefully, and slowly. But he imagines Clint has a way of just barreling through a lot of people’s defenses.

“… But we’ll be out of your hair soon, anyway,” Clint is saying when Phil focuses back up. “Nat’s got a 5 o’clock class, but then we’ll pack up. I’m not kidding, man, I really appreciate it.”

And he’s holding out a hand for Phil to shake. Phil just stares at it until Clint pulls it back and instead scratches awkwardly at the back of his neck.

“Um, I mean …” 

“Pizza,” Phil says, eloquently. 

“What?”

“I’m not feeling inspired enough to cook. How about we order a consolation pizza, and you both stay for dinner?”

“I mean, I don’t want to impose …”

“It’s not an imposition,” Phil says. “Besides, maybe I like the company.”

He begins to formulate his argument while he calls Geno’s and orders a couple of pies. He has a feeling if he couches it just right, he might convince them.

By the time Natasha arrives back from her class, Phil’s got two large pizzas set out on the kitchen table. 

“Oh …” she says, as she walks into the kitchen, letting her backpack slide down her shoulder. “What’s the occasion?”

“I think we’re eating our feelings,” Clint says, coming up behind her. “Wait … I thought we were having pizza?”

“It is pizza,” Phil confirms.

“Doesn’t look like pizza,” he says, giving it a concerned look, as though it might bite him.

“It’s deep dish. It’s proper pizza.”

“Man, where are you even from?”

“Manitowoc, Wisconsin,” Phil says. “Couple hours north of Chicago.”

“That would explain your heathen pizza preferences.” 

“I’m sorry,” Natasha interrupts. “What feelings are we eating again?” 

“Why don’t you both come and sit down,” Phil says, purposefully avoiding the question.

He can tell they’re both wary, on edge, as he passes around oozing slices of pizza and encourages them to eat. 

Phil can’t help that he thinks about things strategically. He always has done, even when he was a kid. So he waits until their mouths are too full to speak. Calculates it so they have to take some time, to think about his words. 

“I think you should move in,” he says, pitching his voice to be as casual as possible. No big deal. “The dean was not … Amenable to my suggestions. But I was thinking, this house is proving a bigger project than I anticipated when I bought it. I could use some help with the renovations. If you were both to help out a couple days a week, say, that would be way more helpful to me than rent could ever be. Honestly, you’d be doing me a good turn.” 

Two sets of wide, alarmed eyes zero in on him as Natasha and Clint slowly chew their food. He gives them both a little closed-mouthed smile, leans back in his chair, takes a bite of his pizza, watches them have another silent conversation across the table with only the widening and narrowing of their eyes.

Clint is the first to speak, taking a gulp of water, and then clearing his throat noisily. 

“You just want us to move in?” he asks. “Just like that?” 

Phil takes the time to finish his bite, letting the silence that follows Clint’s question to grow just to the point where it’s almost too much.

“Like I said, it would be a help. If I don’t actually make a start on things, I might very well freeze to death this winter.”

He takes another bite, chews, pauses.

“You’d have the place to yourself a good deal of the time,” he says. “I travel a lot for work. Actually, it would probably be safer to have someone in the house, now that I think about it.”

He sets his knife and fork down, gathers up his plate, and takes it over the sink.

“Just, consider it,” he says, turning half way back to them. “No need to answer tonight. I’ve got some work to finish up, actually. I’ll be in my room if you need anything.”

Once he finishes washing the plate, he sets it on the drying board, then dries his hands on a dish towel before turning back to them. They both have wide-eyed expressions on their faces. Usually, Phil is pretty good at reading people, at predicting their next move. But he honestly can’t tell this time around.

“Have a good night, both of you.”

Up in his room, Phil does try to focus on paperwork, but he finds it difficult to stick his mind to anything. It’s probably not good, how much he wants them both to stay. How invested he already is. Jesus, is he really that lonely? That he has to adopt college kids like stray puppies?  It’s pathetic. 

It’s midnight, and Phil is deep into a review of 1077 ammunition requisition forms when there’s a soft knock at his door.

“Come in,” he calls.

Clint lets himself in and quietly closes the door behind him.

He chews on his lower lip, looks at Phil through a fan of pale golden lashes.

“We’re not a charity case,” he says, firmly, though his posture – slumped, hands in pockets, trying to make his bulk look smaller – belies the tone.

“That’s not what this is,” Phil says, pulling off his reading glasses and shuffling the papers off his lap so he can sit on the edge of his bed. He can feel Clint watching him with that laser-sharp focus of his. It’s simultaneously exciting and intimidating to have that much attention on him.

“There should be work schedules, and expectations, and deadlines and shit, is what I’m saying.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Just because we’re in a bad way right now, we’re not deadbeats.”

“I don’t think you’re deadbeats. I would never …”

“We did some things when we were younger, but we aren’t those people anymore. We just wanna get our degrees. Make something of ourselves.”

“Clint, I understand. I don’t … I wouldn’t ask you to stay if I thought that’s who you were. I trust you.”

“You shouldn’t!” Clint sputters. “Why would you? You have no possible reason to.”

Phil shrugs.

“I’m a good judge of character. You telling me I’m wrong?” 

Clint clenches his jaw tightly, realizing the little logical trap he’s laid for himself.

“No?” he says.

“Good.”

“Alright,” Clint says with a quick nod. “That’s settled then.”

“You’re moving in?” Phil asks.

“Yeah,” Clint says. “That’s what I’ve been saying.” 

Phil can’t fight the smile that spreads across his face. 

“We’ll start on the bedrooms first,” he says. “More pressing need, apparently.” 

Phil’s not expecting the hug that Clint wraps him in. It throws him off balance. He lets his arms hang limp, not quite trusting himself to return the gesture. But he appreciates the feel of those strong arms holding firmly to his back, and the smell of Clint that overtakes him – sweat, leather, cheap detergent, and an aftershave meant to smell like the ocean. 

“Thank you,” Clint whispers into the crook of Phil’s neck, sending a trail of goose bumps rising up Phil’s arms. 

He pulls back, realizing the precariousness of his position.

“I’m glad you’ve decided to stay,” he says. “It’ll be a big help.”

Clint gives him a little chagrined smile.

“Have a good night, Phil,” he says, glancing back just once as he heads to the door.

“Goodnight, Clint,” Phil says as the door closes.

*

On Sunday, Phil borrows Sam’s truck and he and Clint head to the closest home improvement store in the Maryland suburbs. The parking lot is full up with fancy pick-ups and minivans.

Phil hands Clint a list. 

“Let’s split up,” he suggests. “Make this as quick and painless as possible.” 

Clint looks down at the list, and then out at the crowded parking lot. He gives Phil a wide-eyed look. 

“This is big,” he says.

Phil claps him on the back.

“We’ve got this,” he assures the kid. “Divide and conquer.” 

Phil loads drywall and mud onto a large cart, then goes to look at door locks. He’s inspecting deadbolts when he hears his name being shouted from several aisles away. 

“Phil!” Clint calls. “Phil!”

Phil sticks his head out of the aisle to see Clint wandering through the store with two large stacks of two by fours on both of his shoulders. His biceps bulge, straining the fabric of his purple t-shirt as he grips the lumber. 

Phil’s mouth goes suddenly dry. He should have known that Clint Barton in a hardware store would be an outrageously unfair experience. 

He clears his throat to get Clint’s attention, waves him over. 

“Finally,” Clint says. “These things are getting heavy.”

“They have carts,” Phil says. “Set those down, please.” _Please._

He definitely doesn’t watch with rapt attention as Clint bends down to set the boards on the cart Phil offers him. Definitely, definitely not.

“Whatcha looking at?” Clint asks, as he settles everything into place.

“Hm?” Phil says, momentarily distracted.

 Clint gestures with a nod at the locks Phil had been browsing.

“Oh!” Phil says. “I figured you and Natasha would probably want locks for your rooms.”

He makes his selections, and checks them off his list. 

“Now, I think we just have to get a couple of keys made, and then we can get out of here.”

“Keys?” Clint asks, a little furrow forming in between his eyebrows.

“Yeah, I’m not just going to leave the door unlocked all day,” Phil says. “You and Natasha need keys.”

The confused expression on his face doesn’t fade. He looks like a puppy whose owner has just faked a thrown ball. 

“What?” Phil asks. “Do I have something on my face?” 

“No,” Clint says, shaking his head. “No, it’s just …”

“What?”

“Locks and keys and …”

Oh, Phil thinks. Oh, that’s what this is. Clint still doesn’t think Phil should trust him. The irony that his concern only makes him more trustworthy is completely lost on him. He give the younger man a smirk.

“Keep at it,” Phil says. “It’ll come to you.”

*

Phil’s entire body hurts, and he’s covered in a thin film of drywall dust.

He, Clint and Natasha had spent hours this afternoon putting up drywall in Natasha’s room, patching up the holes and sanding things down smooth.

He’s asked Natasha to pick out a color that suits her. She hadn’t said much in reply, but later that afternoon she’d brought him lemonade and a plate of cookies, and slapped Clint’s hand away when he’d reached for one. Phil appreciates the sentiment.

Now he needs a shower, and possibly an ice pack for his lower back. Damn, Phil hates getting old. The beat of the hot water on his sore muscles makes Phil let out a groan of pleasure. Once he’s successfully un-dusted, he meanders down to the kitchen for frozen peas for his back and coffee for his sanity. Then he sets up shop in the living room.

He’s used to catching up on mission planning during his weekends, and he’s got hours of work ahead of him. He gets lost in the blueprints for a Siberian prison until he’s interrupted by a gentle rapping on the arch of the living room entryway. 

“Hey,” Clint says, leaning against the wall.

Phil carefully makes sure the blueprints he’s looking at are covered by an innocuous manila folder and tries not to stare at the figure Clint cuts in dark wash skinny jeans, and a tight black t-shirt.

“So, Nat and I are going out with some friends tonight. Celebrate a little. If that’s ok?”

Phil chuckles. 

“I’m not your father, Clint. You don’t have to ask my permission to go out.”

“Right,” Clint says. “Right, I know that. I was just thinking maybe you’d like to come along? I think you’d like the guys.”

For a second, Phil’s tempted. But then he thinks about how ridiculous he would look out at a bar with a bunch of college kids.

“Thanks for the offer,” he says. “But I’ve got some work to do.”

“Alright,” Clint shrugs. “Well, if you finish up early and change your mind …” 

“I’m good, thanks,” Phil insists. “Natasha.” 

He nods a greeting at the girl coming down the stairs in what seems like an impossibly skin-tight blue dress. 

“Phil’s not coming,” Clint calls to Natasha.

“Hmm,” she says. “Well, I don’t think Ultrabar is really Phil’s scene.” 

Phil makes a face.

“Definitely not,” he confirms. “But you two have fun. Call me if you need a ride home.”

“Yes, Daddy,” Natasha coos with a smirk, while beside her Clint’s face goes beet red. 

Phil laughs. 

“Get out of here, punks.”

He goes through three pots of coffee, but after many hours of work, he thinks he’s come up with the best possible plan for extracting their asset from the Russian gulag. It’ll take a little finagling to convince Nick that he’s covered all his bases, but Phil is confident. He’s writing out a report to cover the counterarguments when he hears a key turn in the door, and looks down at his watch. It’s 3 a.m. Shit, he has to be at work in a few hours.

Clint weaves into the living room and collapses onto the couch beside Phil. Phil kicks at him with a socked foot.

“You’ve got a bed now, remember?” he says. 

Clint looks up at him, hair a fuzzy halo from where he’s run his fingers through it, eyes slightly bloodshot and hazy from the alcohol.

“Nat met a guy,” he says.

“It strikes me that Natasha is pretty good at that,” Phil says.

“So much better at it than me,” Clint confirms.

“At picking up guys?” Phil asks, heart stuttering in a way that it definitely shouldn’t. Clint isn’t gay, but even if he were, it would have no relevance to Phil. None whatsoever. He doesn’t date toddlers. Especially toddlers who now live with him. 

Clint mumbles an unintelligible reply into a couch cushion he has clutched to his chest, and Phil’s honestly a little grateful not to have any new information to parse. 

Then Clint pulls the cushion away from his face and gives Phil a quizzical look. 

“Dude, have you been here all night?”

“I told you I had work,” Phil says with a noncommittal shrug.

Clint laughs and pushes himself to his feet.

“Well, I for one am going to bed,” he says. “You should take it a little easier, Phil. I mean, it’s not even tax season yet.” 

And with that bon mot, Clint meanders up the stairs to his room.

Phil lets his shoulder slump a little after he’s gone. He buries his face in his hands and allow himself a dramatic sigh. He can’t help feeling a little stung. Clint, with absolutely no prompting or encouragement from Phil, has concluded that Phil is an accountant.

It’s a good thing. Really it is, Phil thinks as he goes to make a fourth pot of coffee. He needed a cover career anyway. If it hurts a little that Clint has gone ahead and selected the most clichéd and boring one for him, he’ll get over it. He will. 

It’s completely unrelated when, at work a couple hours later, he nearly makes Sitwell cry from the dressing down he gives the man when he tells Phil he looks tired. He’s not in a bad mood. It’s just a disrespectful thing to say to a superior officer. Plus, Sitwell really had it coming anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it has taken me so very long to update this. I've been working on another lengthy fic, and it turns out I am very bad at multi-tasking. Updates should be coming more frequently going forward, though. Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Just so there's no confusion, this is an AU where SHIELD is a thing, but super heroes are not. Also, my Clint Barton is very 616-inspired, because comics Clint is the best Clint.


End file.
